


love's an excuse to get hurt (then hurt me)

by halo21



Category: Bright Eyes (Band)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/M, Groupies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: In which Conor compliments a girl's shoes, and, well... the rest is history, friends.
Relationships: Conor Oberst/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	love's an excuse to get hurt (then hurt me)

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously don't expect anybody to ever read this.
> 
> But anyway, hi.
> 
> How are y'all?
> 
> Title (and entire fucking plot) from "Lover I Don't Have To Love" by Bright Eyes.

The band's playing a shitty little bar in Michigan tonight.

Conor is agitated. Very much so, actually. He's somehow still hungover from the drinking he did into the early hours of the morning the night before, and he doesn't think he took his meds right this morning, and all these fucking people at this fucking bar won't shut the hell up and _listen_ _to them play._

For an hour, he sits on a stool on the stage, strumming the hell out of his guitar and hoarsely yelling over the clamor around him in hopes that someone, — _anybody, —_ might actually be listening.

A few songs away from the end of his set, and he's starting to think that he's shit out of luck. 

He glances out into the small crowd. Most of them are disguised by the dark, but he knows that they aren't paying attention. They're talking, laughing, just there for a drink and to fuck around with their friends. They don't want to listen to him play, — if anything, they're tuning him out, no matter how riled up he gets. 

He figures he ought to save his energy, halfass the rest of the set rather than waste any more effort on this particular show.

Then, by pure chance, the lights above the stage shift over the sorry excuse for an audience and land on her.

She's striking, — long burgundy hair and luminescent skin. He doesn't see her talking to anyone, and the waitress doesn't stop on her way through to hand her a drink.

She just stands there, staring straight ahead. 

At him. 

Her pretty face takes on an expression of amusement, red lips curving upwards into a grin.

Just before he attempts to look away and play it all off, she sends him a look the likes of which he has yet to receive from a woman.

That look could melt glaciers. 

He tries to keep a grip on the neck of the guitar, keep playing, keep singing, but he can feel his face flushing, and tearing his eyes away from her is proving to be more difficult than he expected. 

It's not like she's going to look away first, either. 

Her coy grin turns into an honest-to-God smile, showing gleaming white teeth. She bats her coal-lined eyes at him, so very deliberate.

Conor knows that there isn't any doubt about her intentions then. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, turning his eyes back down towards his lap. 

_Two more songs,_ he tells himself. _Then I can go see what that's about._

* * *

Two songs later, everyone else is heading backstage.

Mike walks by, clapping him on the shoulder as he usually does. 

"C'mon, bud," he says. "Ready to start throwing 'em back again?" 

He pushes Mike's hand off his shoulder. "Not quite," he tells him. "There's something I wanna check out at the bar first." 

Mike shrugs. "Suit yourself, then," he says. "We'll be waiting on ya."

"Thanks." Conor throws his hand up halfheartedly as a symbol of gratitude before turning around, heading back towards the standing room floor.

He hopes with every atom of himself that she'll still be there, that he'll be able to find her.

He doesn't quite get why, — it's not like he's had any trouble getting laid in cheap, meaningless ways as of late. 

There was something about seeing this particular woman tonight, though. Maybe it's just the pure frustration he's feeling this evening, or it's that look she gave him.

That look expresses one particular sentiment in a way he could never write it.

It's a wordless invitation: _fuck me._

"Oh... fuck me!"

He startles out of his thoughts, thinking that he's started hearing things, that he's going off the deep end for real this time, — but then he realizes that she's really standing right in front of him, looking terribly displeased. 

A quick glance at her neckline tells him why.

"Jesus," he says. "I'm... I'm so sorry. I wasn't..."

"Watching where you were going?" she finishes. A slight laugh follows her rhetorical question, — not a giggle, but a slightly hoarse, husky laugh. Her voice is low, less girlish than he expected.

"Yeah... I kind of figured," she continues. "It's alright, though. Nothing that won't wash out." She looks from her beer-soaked shirt back to him. He can't quite tell what color her eyes are in this light, — just that they're pale and they cut through him like knives. 

She sighs, shaking her head. "Definitely won't smell great, though."

"I'm sorry," he says again. He's starting to question if he can say anything else. 

Finally, he manages to do that, offering a proposal. "Let me go get you some napkins from the bar."

"Mmm... how courteous," she purrs. "That would be very nice."

Face burning, he nods before heading off towards the bar. Once he gets there, he grabs a handful of napkins, — hopefully enough to take most of her beverage out of the fabric. 

Once he returns, she snatches them from his hands rather abruptly. "Thank you very much!" 

He stands there, watching as she balls a few of the napkins up, using them to dab at the wet spot, smack-dab between her breasts. In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn't be staring like this, because she'll surely catch him, but... God. 

He suspects her tits would've caught his eye, anyway, even if she weren't drawing attention to them in such an awkward manner. They're pushed up in a black halter top, just below his eye-level. They're definitely... nice.

She stops scrubbing and throws the crumpled napkin at him. "Oh, come on, Mr. Rockstar," she says. "Surely you aren't over there wishing I had let you do that, are you?" 

Suddenly, his face feels as if it's burst into flames. "I‐I, um..."

She laughs again, lightly swatting at his arm. "Good Lord, I'm kidding!" she says. "Though, judging by the color your face just turned, I'm gonna guess your honest answer would've been 'yes.'"

She winks at him. This just makes his face burn even more.

Seeking to escape the embarrassment of this whole thing, he looks down at the sticky bar floor. 

Then he takes note of the knee-high leather boots that she's wearing. 

Giving himself no opportunity to cool down, his eyes travel all the way back up her body again, — from those shining black boots, up her incredible denim-clad legs, to her ridiculously distracting cleavage, all the way back to her dark red hair and sparkling, knowing eyes. 

She gives him that same sly smile that she gave him earlier. "Like what you see, huh?"

He opens his mouth, only for the dumbest shit that he could've possibly said to come out.

"I like your boots," he says. "They're, um... those are really cool." 

She chuckles. "God, you're cute," she says. 

Before he can figure out what's happening, she's slinking up to him. She leans into his side, her lips brushing his ear as she whispers a question to him. "You got anywhere we could go to be alone?"

He jerks back, wondering if he'd misunderstood what she just said. 

Still, she looks at him expectantly. "Well?" she presses. 

"Um... well, yeah. I guess." He laughs awkwardly, not quite believing that this is really happening, that he just so happened to get this lucky tonight. "If you want to..."

"Oh, I definitely _want to._ " 

Conor chokes on whatever he was going to say then.

Weakly, he nods. "Alright," he says. "Just... follow me, then."

* * *

They end up in the alleyway.

He was halfway to the bus when his foggy mind registered that Mike and everybody else might already be in there, and hell if that wouldn't kill the mood in an instant. 

The thing is, the girl doesn't seem to mind.

As soon as they're out of the direct glare of the streetlight, she grabs him by the face and pushes him back into the brick of some shoddy building.

She kisses him hard, not hesitating to add her tongue into the equation. Her lips are soft, but the ferocity in her kiss suggests fury.

She pulls back for a second, panting against his mouth. He uses this intermission as an opportunity to ask what he figures is a rather important question. 

He has to figure out who the hell this girl is. 

"What's your name?" he whispers, lips still brushing hers. He reaches up, softly rubbing his thumb against her jaw. "I've gotta know..."

"Shhh."

Just like that, she's pulling him back to her, their mouths colliding again, her tongue running across his teeth. Her hands begin to wander, from his face to his neck, reaching up to pull his hair.

He closes his eyes, letting out a quiet groan.

She pulls back, apparently taking notice.

"You like that, don't you?" she asks between panting breaths. 

He doesn't know what he can do except nod. 

She makes a soft sound of acknowledgement before pressing her lips against his again. From there, she makes her way down, stopping to mouth at his neck. He knows that she's probably marking him up with hickeys and bright red lipstick stains, and he doesn't mind one fucking bit. 

His eyes are shut, and he's leaning against these bricks, and he can feel denim against denim as she presses her whole body closer to his, and he's wondering if he's ever been this turned on in all his twenty-one years of life. 

She pulls back again, whispering a keen observation into his ear. "You make noises like a whore."

He huffs out a stuttering laugh, even though he knows he's tensing up beneath her. Those words shouldn't make him harder, but they do. 

"I should've expected that," the girl continues. "You are a singer, after all."

For a while, she stays still. The moonlight falls over her face, turning her eyes silver. She keeps pressing herself closer to him, — chest against chest, a thigh between his legs, — but she makes no move to kiss him again. She just keeps on looking at him, and that's intense enough. 

But just for a little while. 

Conor realizes that he's breathing hard, his chest heaving against hers. Perhaps, at some point, one of them figured that this was going to stop with making out, but they're past that point now. Even though he doesn't know her name, Conor knows that he _wants_ this girl, that she makes his heart run wild and his breathing hitch and that he's hornier than he's been since the first time he and Neely got to third base, probably. And that's saying something.

He leans his head back against the brick wall, head spinning. 

The point is, whoever this girl is, they're gonna have to get out of here so that he can fuck her. Otherwise, he just might pass out in this alleyway. 

He reaches down and grabs her hand in the dark. The girl stiffens, pulling away like he's shocked her. 

"Hey," he manages to speak. "Do you wanna... get a hotel room? I don't really think we can... I mean, not here..."

The moonlight flits over the girl's devilish grin. "I'm way ahead of you there, pretty boy," she says. "Come on."

She reaches through the thick evening's air, grabbing ahold of Conor's hand. He takes that hand in his grip, feeling the contrasting textures between their skin, — her, soft, him, callused, — and believes in something like magic for a heady moment as she pulls him out of the alleyway, towards God-knows-where.


End file.
